A Test of Sanity
by xfighterplane
Summary: In which Kristen Gregory attempts to study for her SATs and get her future on stable ground, until he came around. Kemp/Kristen, one-shot.


**SAT Tip #1: Begin preparing for your exam at least two weeks in advance.**

Getting over a 2300 on the SAT was a matter of life and death.

You may read that statement and think, "Clearly this girl had issues. It's only a test!", but I mean business.

Before you classify me as a jaded over-exaggerator, consider this: you start slaving over school in the sixth grade when your mother tells you that "_there is no way in hell you're going to Abner Double Day for high schoo_l" and "_Octavian Country Day is the best high school in the state and they only accept the best, you hear me? The cream of the crop._" By the end of eighth grade, you're finally admitted into OCD (unfortunate initialism, yet appropriate) and you think that maybe you can relax a little for once and maybe take a cooking class or something for the much dreamed about easy A.

Wrong.

You're in the big leagues now, kid. The next four years of your prized youth are spent taking virtually every AP class offered and acing each course, working your body to the breaking point to become the girls soccer team captain, and joining almost every club in an attempt to pad your college applications. Why put yourself through this hell? Turns out Yale, Princeton, Harvard, and any university worth caring about only accept "_the cream of the crop_" and you're starting to hate that phrase because, really, what is this crop and why must you be the cream? But somehow, you manage it. Nothing less than a 4.0 grade point average, shoe-in for valedictorian, and your college essays are coming along swimmingly. By the looks of it, you'll be the only Gregory in your family to attend a top ten school.

Except there's one problem.

You score a 2100 on the SAT.

Now, a 2100 isn't bad. In fact, it's awesome to even break 2000 on that blasted test. If you're average, that is. You can't afford to get a 2100 now, with all of your accomplishments. That would be like wearing a BCBG dress with ratty sneakers. Not that you wear BCBG, of course, but the analogy still stands. For you, a 2100 is mediocre. And the Ivy League doesn't _do_mediocre, especially when it comes to people who need a full ride scholarship. Forget number theory—2300 was the perfect number; high, yet attainable.

The second you receive that 2100, you register for the next exam. It's like fifty dollars and you won't be able to go out for lunch anymore, but who cares? It's your future. The next exam is exactly a month away and if you don't get a 2300, one of the two options will occur:

1.) You will not get into the trinity of Yale, Princeton, or Harvard. You'll be lucky if Dartmouth and Columbia will still want you, let alone give you a full scholarship. And if you don't get into one of them, you'll have to attend the local university. The thought of having spent the last seven years striving for success only to go to the same college as airhead Claire Lyons is enough to prove that life is simply not worth living any more.

And you'll throw yourself off of a building. You just will.

2.) Your mother will realize all of the above and kill you before you get the chance to do it yourself. Because she's spent the last seven years using her meager salary to pay for AP tests, soccer equipments, and college applications. It won't even be a crime of passion, she'll just poison your food.

Hopefully you can see my predicament, and that I'm not crazy. Really.

Unfortunately, that stupid 2100 was the reason I had to dedicate all my spare time in between soccer and homework holed up in the Westchester Library. It was only there, for some reason, where I could concentrate on my SAT practice tests and get some real work done. Huddled up in one of the back tables, surrounded by books, scratch paper, and sharpened number 2 pencils—if my life and future wasn't on the line, it would've been nerd heaven.

And, I swear on David Beckham, I would've studied hard than I had ever studied in my entire life if it wasn't for him.

* * *

><p><strong>SAT Tip #2: Utilize practice books by different companies and authors. One book may have information another one lacks, and vice versa.<strong>

There I was, smack dab in the middle of the non-fiction section staring right at the test help shelf. A plethora of exam tips from people who had gotten perfect scores, people who scored the test, and even the people who make the test. For me, it was an overachiever mecca.

Greedily staring down the beacons of my future, I started grabbing every book with "SAT" on it that I could. Unfortunately, ten heavy books plus my small frame plus me stupidly thinking I could climb the shelf to get 2400 in 24 Hours multiplied by Newton's third law and divided by the universe's penchant of making things go wrong for me equaled trouble. Trouble in the form of me shakily losing my balance, flailing around not unlike a deranged chicken, and almost becoming the first person to die from falling only three feet.

And then_ it_happened.

"Watch out!" Another person called out, just as I had slipped and was making my way to my untimely demise. My life flashed before my eyes: scoring my first soccer goal, getting perfect scores on all my AP tests last year, beating Danny Robbins for valedictorian spot by a large margin, realizing my life probably wasn't as exciting as it could've been... I braced myself for impact with the tough carpeted floor, only to come in contact with something else.

Correction:_ someone_ else.

"Are you okay?" Surrounded by the pile of books that collapsed in my wake, I opened my eyes only to find that I was the in the arms of some boy. A very cute boy. A tall, lean boy around my age with curly brown hair that fell in his warm brown eyes with the air of carelessness the guys at my school aimed for, but failed miserably at. A boy with nice pink lips pulled up into what can only be described as a concerned smile, if that was possible.

Did I mention that his arms were around me, like he was rescuing me from zombie-ninja-terrorists with flame throwing guns and not a horde of SAT books? Because I find that detail to be quite crucial.

Except instead of appreciating his bravery in the face of heavy reading material literally falling off the shelf, and I jump out of his hold like he's on fire and not somebody who possibly rescue me from zombie-ninja-terrorists with flame throwing guns.

"Are you okay?" he repeated, letting out a tiny chuckle.

Of course he would laugh. Of course. "Yeah, I'm, uh, okay. Fine, even," I stammered, hoping my gaping at his eyes wasn't completely obvious. It was purely scientific, I assure you, I just wanted to know the exact color. And memorize it.

Then, I remembered that he did sort of save my life, so I quickly threw in a, "Thanks for that. By the way."

The guy shrugged it off. "No problem. I do my best when it comes to damsels in distress."

It actually took ten seconds for me to realize he was joking. In response, I started laughing. Unfortunately, my nervous laugh is like that of a chipmunk on nitrous oxide. "Yeah, um, yeah," I said once I got my snickers to subside.

"So," he began, pointing at the pile of books strewn around us, "big reader, huh?"

Oh, God. The books. I quickly knelt down to pick up the texts, stacking them precariously in my arms. To my surprise, the guy picked the rest up with minimal effort.

"Need some help?"

In more ways than one. "Sure," I managed to say, "I just gotta check them out." Walking slowly to the checkout stand in the front of the library so I woudn't trip on my face this time, a million butterflies started fluttering my stomach. Yes, actual metaphorical butterflies. AP Psychology taught me that this feeling was caused by the release of endorphins in my system. Common sense told me it was because this guy was carrying my books. How old fashioned.

Once we got to the checkout desk, he put my books on the table and said, "I take it your studying for the SATs?"  
>"More like cramming," I blurted out, only for him to laugh in reply.<p>

He mused, "I'm sure you'll do great. Good luck with cramming, and try not to climb any more shelves." My cheeks burned at the mention of my gaffe. But before I could attempt to think of a witty comeback (fat chance), the boy was gone.

* * *

><p><strong>SAT Tip #3: Process of elimination is often your best chance of answering correctly when you do not know how to solve a problem.<strong>

There were about 400,000 people in Westchester County. This library is most frequented by those living in White Plains, which narrowed it down to about 60,000. Now, there are only four major high schools around here. Assuming the guy I met was my age and a senior, that meant that he was one out of at least 8,000 on the basis each high school had around 2,000 students. When you consider that factor that the average person attends their local library approximately four times a year along with the previous facts, using a statistics based algorithm I could successfully predict that my chances of seeing the boy again at the library were—

"Hey." _100%_, as he stood right in front of me with an easygoing smile.

Clearly, I was not prepared for another encounter so soon. My hair was growing back out unattractively since my ill-fated attempt to cut it into a cute bob, my eyes were watery and dull from having stayed up all night to get a head start on my English essay, and I was dressed in my I-accept-that-resemble-an-ogre-and-I-don't-care sweats.

"Hi," I squeaked out.

"Mind if I sit here? The other tables are full." Indeed they were, to my absolute joy. I nodded 'yes' and he put his own books on the table and sat down. "I'm Kemp, by the way. I don't think we were formally introduced."

Kemp. Kemp. What a name. It was actually one of the more obscure SAT words from my complete collection, meaning poor quality sheep's wool. Turns out, it was synonymous with pulchritudinous, SAT-speak for "comely as hell."

"I'm Kristen."

"Cool. How's the SAT prep going along?" he asked curiously. "Cramming working for you?"

I frowned. "Not good." His waiting silence prompted me to elaborate. "At the rate I'm going, I'll never break a 750 on the critical reading section, I'm permanently stuck at 620 no matter what I do. So the best I can hope for is a perfect in math and writing to bump me up."

A look of disbelief flashed on his face. "Wow," he whistled, "a 620 is your definition of not good?"

Great, now he probably thinks I'm some high-strung overachiever. Which was true, but I didn't necessarily want that to be his opinion of me, given that his first impression wasn't the best. "I 620 is good," I quickly backtracked, "it's just that uh, well it's just that—"

"You need to do better," Kemp finished understandingly. "I get it."

A flood of relief washed over me. "How did you do on yours?"

Kemp laughed. "You don't want to know."

"It can't be that bad."

"Compared to you, it's awful. Atrocious." He stretched his arms and yawned. "My public school education let me down, good ol' ADD. Not that you would know anything about that," he teased with a grin. "OCD, eh? No wonder." Abner Double Day, AKA the school I would've went to if The Powers That Be—my mother—wasn't so determined to make me a success.

I flushed, but then realized something was off about his statement. "I never said anything about going to OCD." Immediately, images of Kemp going on a quest to discover everything about me after our brief meeting flooded my mind. I pictured him hiring a composite artist to sketch a picture of me and going around door to door, demanding to know any information about me.

"It's on your shirt?" Or, yeah, that. Sure enough, I was wearing my OCD Lady Tomahawks t-shirt. He wasn't some tortured romantic on a quest. That's cool, I guess.

"Right," I muttered. Hoping to change the subject, I asked, "What are you studying?" Like me, Kemp had brought along an assortment of books with him.

He flinched. "Music theory," he answered, "It's ridiculously dull." Musician always trumps tortured romantic in the pulchritudinous department. With that artfully ruffled hair and faded Libertines shirt, I should've saw that coming.

"Music theory? That doesn't sound boring at all," I said, instantly regretting my eagerness.

"It's okay, but it's the basis for everything I want to do, so it's kinda a necessity. Like in math, you know? You gotta learn how to add and subtract before you do algebra."

My curiosity was piqued. At OCD, it seemed like everyone was on the medical, law, or business track. We had a dire lack of creative souls. "What do you wanna do?"

"Composing, mostly. I play the violin, cello, guitar, and the drums. A little piano on the side, nothing special," he replied, with the same spark in his eyes I got when I aced a particularly difficult exam. "But Julliard only takes the best, so I've gotta be ready for my audition." No wonder he understood my need to do better at any cost.

Say it with me, folks: _Julliard_. As in, the best performing arts school in the country. As in, they only want the cream of the crop. As in, he was good enough to even consider applying to Julliard. After spending time with people who were guaranteed a spot in an Ivy just because of their wealth or their parents, it was odd to see someone move up in the world purely on talent. Odd, but overwhelmingly refreshing.

Suddenly, I wanted very much to hear his music. But, he turned the conversation quickly back on me. "What do you wanna do?"

I automatically said, "Medicine. Specifically neurology," like I always say whenever somebody asked that question.

"Nice," was all he remarked, but the look of admiration at my aspirations said more than enough.

But somewhere between thinking of another question to ask him about Julliard or his music or how exactly did his eyes manage to be that brown and accidentally glancing down at my watch to see that I'd been in the library for two hours and hadn't finished one practice test, I knew I had to get back to the real world.

Picking up my pencil and flipping open my test booklet, I told him, "I should study now," and returned back to the world of grammar exercises, math equations, and bubble sheets.

* * *

><p><strong>SAT Tip #3: Make studying part of your routine. Study or take a practice test at least once a day in a quiet place so you can focus on improving your score and getting to know the test.<strong>

Somehow, these meetings in the library became a thing.

Every free-period I had during the day was devoted to doing any homework I needed to do, which worked out fine because I usually ate lunch alone while studying anyway (my fellow overachievers had lunch later). Then, it was an hour and a half of pre-season soccer training to show the new girls the ropes. But once I had showered away the grime and sweat, four o'clock to six became the best part of my day.

Kemp and I never formally agreed to meet at that time at that table in the library, it just happened. After the second day of encountering him, we had met again the next day on accident. And again. And again.

Suddenly, we became study-friends. Though officially I was there to work on my practice tests (which I somehow managed to finish) and he was there to brush up on music theory and ultimately compose a piece of music for his Julliard application, we had a lot of unofficial fun. Making paper planes out of my scratch work, going through an absurd amount of Where's Waldo books, and being shushed incessantly by the short tempered librarian when our laughter was too loud—the library became our own little amusement park.

But then, I'd get a call from my mom checking to make sure I was really studying or I'd get a text from someone in my classes asking for homework help and I'd remember that, oh right, I'm_ that girl_. And_ that girl_doesn't read picture books or do origami with nice musician boys with nice brown eyes.

It wasn't like we weren't learning. In fact, we both discovered new things. I helped Kemp with any written work for his Julliard application and taught him the finer points of making yourself sound like the best candidate: focus 90%, 10% on weaknesses. But keep your weaknesses vague and open ended, never be too detailed at what you're bad about. Also, it will never hurt to consider "working too hard" a fault.

Kemp reciprocated by showing me the highlights of his own world, music. He made me listen to nearly everything: old rock, new folk, underground rap, and his favorite, classical.

Once, I was listening to a short violin piece on his iPod while absentmindedly finishing a practice test for math. The melody was like a storm, starting slow with peaceful rainfall and building up to a thunderous crescendo before maintaining that frenzied energy until the very end.

"Who wrote this?" I asked, feeling proud of myself for formulating that question correctly. Kemp had told me that it wasn't who performed the music that mattered, but who created and wrote it because that's who was really playing it. Naturally, most radio music rubbed him the wrong way.

He fidgeted in his chair before grinning sheepishly. "You liked it?"

"Yeah, I did." I surprised myself, seeing as three weeks ago the only classical music I liked was that one piece by Debussy that everyone adored. "Who wrote it?"

"Me," he finally admitted, tousling his already unkempt locks. "I was really bored one Saturday and my friend gave me this new recording program on my laptop and..."

I didn't hear the rest of his explanation. I simply put the headphones back in my ears and smiled.

* * *

><p><strong>SAT Tip #4: A few days before your exam, go back and review what you have learned through your study sessions. Make a list of your weak points and focus on them until test day.<strong>

"I find the fact that you're doing a math test quite an aberration," remarked Kemp on one of the days leading up to my SAT. His new game was to use as many of my vocabulary words in casual sentences as a way to prep me.

"Math happens to be my strong suit," I snorted, finishing up the last problem, "and I think you used aberration wrong."

"Aha!" he exclaimed. "That was my intention. By knowing when it's used incorrectly, you have to know the definition."

"You just realized that right now."

"Prove it."

Scoffing, I decided to utilise my trump card. "How's that composition of yours going?"

His eyes narrowed. "Great," he said between gritted teeth, "it's going great." Through a strange twist of fate, Kemp's Julliard submission, consisting of recordings of him on the violin, guitar, and piano, was due the same day I was to take my SAT. But he hadn't composed his original violin piece yet, despite my prodding. "Inspiration needs to strike," he had commented enigmatically.

But the distressing thought of me distracting him from working on his music kept plaguing me. I was no music expert, but there was no way that he could write something and have it practiced to Julliard standards by Saturday. What's worse is what if he was just distracting me? A nagging voice in the back of my head kept telling me that I would've been better off not knowing him, as if forgetting those eyes and that smile would put me closer to that elusive 2300. The past weeks had been fun, but they needed to come to a close. We were in crunch time, with only a few short days to go until our respective futures were up in the air.

I must have been spacing out because he said, "Kristen?"

Back to reality I went. "Yeah?"

"I asked, are you nervous for your exam?" There was that concerned half smile of his again, split between natural sympathy and good humor.

Biting my lower lip and trying to ignore the feeling of nausea in my stomach, I was still able to weigh my limited options:

A.) Spill my guts out and admit that, yes, I'm actually terrified of taking the test. Not because it's difficult, but because I can't control it. No matter how much I tried, there was no way I could just waltz in the test room and ace it, not this time. I can't afford to be less than perfect, and perfection is a horrid combination of hard work and luck. Hard work I could manage, luck was another story. This was real, this was happening. My future depended on this exam, hyperbole or not.

B.) Spill my hearts out and admit that, yes, I was nervous but not about the test. I was nervous that after Saturday, I would never see his smile or eyes or his seemingly endless collection of band shirts again, which was a shame because he was the only boy who had shown any sort of interest in me outside of my grades. I would never hear the rhythmic tapping of his pencil on the table while he concentrated on something or the abundance of music he claimed that I'd like, which I always did. Our study-friendship had an expiration date, and there was nothing I could do about it.

C.) Put on a brave face and say, "Yeah. Just a little, though," and promptly change the subject to something a little less nerve-wracking.

Every SAT book I've read so far says to pick "C" when you have no idea what to do.

I hope they were right.

* * *

><p><strong>SAT Tip #5: On the day of the test, try to clear your mind from any distractions. Focus on what's right in front of you. But most of all, take a deep, soothing breath and relax.<strong>

My first thoughts when I entered the SAT testing room were, "_Did they suck all the air out of here? How am I supposed to take the test if I can't even breathe? Am I sweating? Oh, God, I'm sweating and it hasn't even started yet. Why did they seat me so close the window, I'm gonna be so distracted. Shit. I left my water bottle in my car, I'm gonna die from dehydration. Why is there only one—_"

The test booklet was slapped on my desk my the administrator, who read the directions so quickly it came out as a slur. Before I could register that moment, he announced, "Please begin work on your first section. You have twenty-five minutes starting now."

Shit.

Luckily, the test flew by quickly. I had all of my math questions first, which I was extremely confident in. Writing was alright, I knew I didn't do as well as math, but I had easily gotten at least 700. My water and snack break was used trying to calm the rest of my jitters, and definitely not thinking about Kemp's eyes or his music or anything remotely diverting.

Until I got to the critical reading section.

Question #3 was a passage on the importance of classical music in the late 1700s.

Question #11 had the following analogy: "Grotesque is to incongruous as pulchritudinous is to_."

Question #19 was another reading, but this time on the strenuous admission policies of elite universities. Including Julliard.

But somehow, I pushed through the test and had to force myself from spending an inordinate amount of time of the questions that reminded me of him. There were seven, by the way. I should have a stern talking to with the SAT developers. Regardless, there was hope beating in my heart, the hope that I may have actually done well enough today to secure my future. Full scholarships from Ivy League schools? Come to Mama.

"Time is up. This concludes your SAT. You're free to go."

The second I walked out of the testing building, I felt an immense weight lifted off of my shoulders. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and I was positive my score had improved. All was right in the world.

"Need a ride?" Not quite. There was Kemp, leaning against his car, grinning madly. Inhaling, I walked over to him as cautiously as I could.

I queried, "What are you doing here?"

He shrugged. "I figured you'd maybe need a lift home after going through hell," he said, smoothing out his faded Queen t-shirt.

"Oh," was all I could say to that sentiment. "Did you mail your Julliard application yet?"

That was when his whole face lit up. "Not yet," he replied, opening the door to the passenger seat like a chauffeur. There was a part of me that knew I shouldn't get in, that I should continue being that girl and take the bus straight home so I could do the pile of homework that awaited me and start making plays for the soccer season and work on my college application essays.

But then another part of me told that part to shut the hell up for once.

Once we were on the road, he began playing a CD. It was classical, of course, with mostly stringed instruments with the occasional drumbeat. The track faded effortlessly into the next one. Immediately, I recognized the familiar violin piece that Kemp had shown me before in the library. Yet, it was slightly different. More practiced and fine tuned. Technically, yes, it was better because each note was hit perfectly. But what had changed?

And then I listened. Really listened. The epiphany hit me harder than a stack of prep books.

The piece was endlessly more passionate. Each note was played more heart than the last. Hell, each note was played with as much energy as the typical last note. There was no slow beginnings or crashing endings, only the middle. The middle of the so-called wasted past and the eager future. _Now_.

I had only question. "What's it called?"

His eyes stayed on the road, but the corner of his lips twitched up. "Read the paper."

I grabbed the paper lying haphazardly on the dashboard and read it with hungry eyes. It was a neatly typed up track list of the CD we were listening. The CD, I discovered with a pang in my heart, that he was sending off as part of his application.

**TRACK 1: _Introduction_: violin, guitar, drums.**

**TRACK 2: _Kristen:_ violin.**

And that was as much as I needed to see.

For the next ten tracks, we sat in a comfortable silence with nothing but the music surrounding us and the pavement up ahead. Because there was no use in living solely in the future, not when the glorious now was happening. Every so often, I'd catch his eye and smile, and he would do the same because in that fleeting moment, that was all we had to do.

Of course, I was still _that girl_. I still had a horde of homework and soccer plans and essays to work on. But not now.

And besides, it's not like it was a matter of life and death.

* * *

><p><strong>I've had this idea in my head for a while, so I naturally had to write it out ASAP. Plus, it was about time for me to give Kristen the spotlight, she is woefully underrated. And Kemp, when he's not being a perv :o<strong>

**I hope you guys enjoyed this oneshot, and that it wasn't as crappy as it appears to be on second reading. Be sure to check out my new story, "Someday, You'll Laugh About This" too! :)**

**As always, feedback is massively appreciated!**

**Thanks for reading,  
><strong>

**Ren**


End file.
